


Just Once, To Be Lifted Strong

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Hope Was A Word, Just A Glimmer Of The Blade [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Depends on how you look at it, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Everyone Needs A Hug, Exile, Forbidden Love, Force Bond (Star Wars), Hallucinations, Hope vs. Despair, I Don't Even Know, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Mental Anguish, My First Work in This Fandom, Not Canon-Compliant?, Or A Dream, Out of Character?, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: In exile on Tatooine, Obi-Wan struggles against his own solitude and nightmares, fighting the Dark Side with Yoda's revelatory training in a way that the Jedi Master had probably never intended.Or: ". . . And I long to be carried on,Just once, to be lifted strong,Out of the lonelinessAnd the emptinessOf the days . . ."





	Just Once, To Be Lifted Strong

**Author's Note:**

> A new story in a new fandom?!
> 
> I guess so. ^_^
> 
> And something of a fever-dream . . . 
> 
> **Here's me covering my butt; if you don't care, feel free to skip! :)**  
>  I've recently rekindled my love for _Star Wars_ \--er, pre-Disney _Star Wars_ \--so I'm not up-to-speed on what's considered canon anymore (as per the movies, comics, books, etc.) . . . Read at your own risk.
> 
> Otherwise, here we are. Based largely off the prequels, _A New Hope_ , and what I can remember of the _Jedi Apprentice_ series by Jude Watson and Dave Wolverton (which I read as a kid) . . . as well as a whole lot of headcanon. 
> 
> Among other things: the Jedi were expected to be celibate. I've always thought of them as nothing less than a monastic order; if they're expected to let go of all attachments, to embrace self-discipline, to release their emotions, to live for the good of others and not for themselves--then celibacy just seems like a logical continuation.
> 
> I also used the shortened form of the Code because I'm not sure the longer version's format ("There is no . . . there is . . .") would much ring true for Obi-Wan at this point. "(insert word) yet (insert other word)" seems a much more approachable version for someone who's essentially going through a crisis of faith; by using it instead of the longer version (which I don't know that he could reconcile at this point), he's still clinging to hope . . . of some kind. Meeting himself halfway, as it were.
> 
> (Ahhh! Sorry! I always get paranoid posting a work in a new fandom . . .)
> 
> Speaking of: the period in which this story takes place straddles both the Prequels and the OT, so I didn't know where the hell to put it. *shrugs awkwardly* Hence the tags, I guess.
> 
> Title and alternate summary are from Patrick Wolf's ["The Days"](https://genius.com/Patrick-wolf-the-days-lyrics).
> 
> Comments and thoughts are always welcome, friend. <3 Thank you for reading in advance, and I do hope you enjoy!

The night on Tatooine is never truly still; stones sigh with the weary exhalations of the winds that sough through the canyons, whining in the crags and cracks. The dunes whisper hissing, sand-grained songs, and even the sky murmurs at last a mockery of peace at the end of each scorching, twin-sunned day—fashioning not so much a lullaby as a dirge, for the deserts weave a constant thread of life and death entwined.

And through it all, the Force—in the winds and the stones, each grain of sand, each life, organic or mechanical . . . scratching out a desperate existence, not unfelt out here, even out here, in the wastelands where so few dare to tread . . .

The night on Tatooine is cold, as well, as is usually so with desert worlds. Would that it were really peace, but no: night brings raids and savagery, a whetstone by which a warrior keeps sharp his skills, although never with a blade of light . . .

And by day, in the heat, when Obi-Wan cannot sleep, he sits in the meager shade of his abode, patched with glare from notched and meager windowed-eyes. He holds the weapon that is as much a part of himself as any limb, any sense or faculty, turning it over, clutching it for the sake of familiarity at best . . . And a tremulous line to walk  _that_  is—for far too often now he remembers nothing but what the blade last did—and his hand tightens on the hilt and he bows his head, gathering the Force about him like a cloak—for now he trembles worse than if wracked with cold.

But the boy, the son—but Luke—is safe, and just past the dunes and through the canyon lies the moisture farm . . . And sometimes he creeps to the crest of a hill to watch in the fading light as the boy plays with his uncle, framed by suns-set . . . although there is a growing bitterness to Owen that is worrisome . . . But still, the boy is safe, and happy for the moment; the Force is like a wellspring within him, the song of a brook, a promise of peace, of hope, to the essence of the man who watches over him, wrapped in the sands of the desert and flinching still from the remembered heat of Mustafar. Who fights raiders in the night so that he will be ready, always, in case the darkness comes.

* * *

But now the day, with a heat all its own, with its blinding glare, and Obi-Wan sits in the tepid shadows of his exile’s home, alone. And now, as increasingly of-late, even the thought of Luke—the hope—is not quite enough to carry him.

He breathes deeply, still cradling his lightsaber, tucking it into the cloak of the Force which he’s wrapped around himself. Five years it’s been since his exile began, and still he has not begun to practice Yoda’s teachings. Would that the Master knew . . . He cannot even begin to explain to himself why this is so, except self-punishment and self-denial. As if he deserves the loneliness, the isolation . . .

_When, if not now? Will it not be harder and harder as time goes on? Will I not so mire myself that I am stranded in these thoughts . . . ?_

Obi-Wan settles his back against the cool of the wall, allowing himself that luxury, before setting his lightsaber at his side. Distractions will not do. Cross-legged, he cups his hands and holds them open, upward, resting on his knees, as if to receive a gift—to catch rainwater, maybe, but in his past experience, the drops have always slipped through the cracks between his fingers.

As with any meditation, Obi-Wan begins a mantra of the Jedi Code, holding each line carefully, feeling each word resonate through the Force—not only the living Force around him, its expression particular to Tatooine and he, himself, but also the Force that weaves innumerable threads throughout the galaxy, binding all life-forms together . . . wherein the Force permeates all and perpetuates two cosmic Truths: the Dark, yet the Light.

* * *

“Emotion, yet peace.”

Well enough he’s wrestled with his emotions, ever since he was on the cusp of his thirteenth year and the anger with which he fought had nearly cost him being Qui-Gon’s Padawan. Well, it  _had_ —until the Force had brought them together on the freighter bound for Bandomeer. But the Master had tempered those fires, showing Obi-Wan how to set aside such emotions as led far too many, and all-too-easily, to the Dark Side: to acknowledge them with neutrality and then to release them, for anger and hate had no place in the heart of a Jedi.

As for the rest—love and hope and joy—they were friends, they were allies, embraced and released in turn until one’s mind was clear, until nothing was clouded and the Force was the brightest light around them . . .

Little peace he’s found though, now, and certainly not for the first time do Obi-Wan’s thoughts travel to his Master. What would Qui-Gon think of him this way, wracked by nightmares? What would he think of the endless spiral of shame? Failure—so much has been failure—

But not so now. From failure has been born hope, for now the son of Anakin Skywalker has a protector—and, in due time, will have a teacher all his own—and if Obi-Wan has failed the father, he will not fail the son.

“Ignorance, yet knowledge.”

 _Ignorance._ The word has a taste to it, a sheen; it shimmers with the Dark Side. This is not mere lack of knowledge, no—perhaps it is willingly turning away from the truth, from what is seen, as if wishing to unsee it. Such it was with Anakin; too many times can Obi-Wan think back on when the young man showed flickers of the horror he would soon enough become . . . the Dark Side unleashed in a torrent of lightning on another Padawan during a training session, although whether it had been from rage or fear was never clear . . . And Anakin had been absolutely terrified, had that night buried his head in his Master’s robes and wept, and Obi-Wan had struggled to find words of comfort . . .

Had Yoda not sensed it? Had Yoda not tried to warn them?

And he—and he—had Obi-Wan himself not willingly turned away from the exploits of his Padawan, even when Anakin was his Padawan no longer? How long had he known about the young man and his secret bride? Ever since he saw that Padme was pregnant . . . What, then, had been his hope? Or his allegiance to a promise spake over a decade earlier—

When the wide-eyed boy had turned to him by the light of Qui-Gon’s pyre: “What will happen to me now?”

And for a dying promise, for his Master’s final words, what had Obi-Wan said, but that he  _promised_  the boy he would become a Jedi Knight . . . As if the promise was really his to give.

Obi-Wan’s body trembles and he fights to regain the cadence of his breath. The good and the bad are both necessary; was this not what he had learned? How precious the memory is? Had he not nearly lost it once? Had he not, through strength of will and by the will of the Force, survived a mind-wipe? But it had taken recollecting everything, the good and the bad . . .

_Breathe._

The cloak of the Force which he has wrapped around himself dissolves, only to strengthen its coursing within him, a wellspring . . .

_Breathe._

“Passion, yet serenity.”

Obi-Wan’s thoughts drift again to his Master. His own mind has given him enough torture with the past . . . and Yoda would no doubt chide him, now . . . The contemplation of the Code as a touchstone to meditation was always introspective, inward-seeking . . . but the night has been long and the days stretch longer and he isn’t sure just now where this path will lead. Had Yoda not proffered him this gift—the path to commune with his Master? For what other purpose than guidance?

And the ache now is as new as it was then, spread across the years and blurred into a single pinpoint—exultation, exasperation, joy and agony and loss—

_Master—_

_(Passion, yet serenity—)_

What words are there but those for him?

And suddenly the wellspring breaks and his breath is caught again and tears gather at his eyes but he cannot move to wipe them.

* * *

A hand at his shoulder. Gentle. A voice that he has not heard but for in his dreams in so very many years— And more than that, far more, the  _presence_. It ripples through the Force, that broken wellspring flooding him; he could mistake it for nothing, for no one. The link through the Force that bound them as Master and apprentice was never really broken, was it?

“Death, yet the Force, my young Padawan.”

He dares not raise his head, and for a moment there is silence. He wonders yet if he still breathes; he has lost the conscious, intentional rhythm and the body around him feels frozen and fixed. Feels like something not his own . . .

“Obi-Wan.”

And when at last he looks, compelled, he finds no specter of the Force before him, but a man of flesh and blood. His Master. The hand at his shoulder is large and warm, the weight of it the epitome of assurance and perplexion’s dance. How can this be? Yoda had said—

The half-spun thought earns him a smile, reflected more in his Master’s eyes than otherwise, for Qui-Gon’s face is still. His expression would seem passive to any but those who knew him well; he could fool even the Council with such a serene countenance. And in that moment the strands of hope to which Obi-Wan has clung begin to tangle, twisted in his fingers, like twine cutting at his skin.

_I have failed in Master Yoda’s teachings. That must be. For this . . . is not . . . You are not . . ._

A shuddering inhalation. “You are not real.”

“Then close your eyes, young Padawan.”

And it is done without a second thought, years of conditioning fluttering his eyelids closed, bringing the center back unto himself, returning the rhythm to his breath.

_< True enough, the eyes can deceive, as can the ears and even the inner workings of one’s mind. But tell me again, my young Padawan—is this not real?>_

And there—again the presence magnified, sharpened, brought into focus by the Force flowing between them as easily as conversation, spoken word, a thought, a glance.

There is no mistaking this. There can’t be. The echoed memory, a mere conjured mockery from desperation, could not hold a candle to this truth.

_< Master.>_

Silence, for a moment more, until Qui-Gon’s hand drops from his shoulder; Obi-Wan dimly becomes aware of the fact that his Master sits before him, close enough so that their knees touch—each the other’s mirror . . . Impulsively he reaches out, hands still cupped as if in offering, and soon finds the tips of Qui-Gon’s fingers pressed into his palms, gently, an offering unto itself, more precious than the rainwater he can never seem to hold.

_< Obi-Wan.>_

Again the hint of a smile, although the sadness behind it now is unmistakable. But ever the Master, Qui-Gon waits, waits until the silence is unbearable and Obi-Wan’s thoughts, so carefully guarded, so tucked away lest they lure him ever closer to the precipice, are one by one tugged loose beneath that gentle coaxing. A Padawan should have no secrets . . .

* * *

The story of the boy is told, the boy who so captured Qui-Gon’s hopes, the boy with much fear hidden beneath a brave façade. The boy who grew into an angry and brooding young man, headstrong, lovesick, fearful of the loss that is always inevitable—who could not fathom the difference between the selfless love of compassion and the selfish love of need. And it becomes the story of the errant Jedi who fell to the Dark Side; Palpatine had led him there but it had always been Anakin’s choice, born from his fear and his rage . . .

And the story is told of the Temple destroyed and children slaughtered; of unborn and forbidden twins; of lava and heat and agony . . . Of the Dark Lord left by the warrior of Light to the will of the Force . . .

* * *

“And Padme died in childbirth. The children . . . we split them up, lest the Sith—the Emperor—find them and corrupt them . . . they do not know who they are . . . the son is here, he’s my charge; I swore to protect him . . .”

Obi-Wan stumbles to a halt, unable now to speak, scarcely realizing that he has forsaken thought for word.

Pressure from the tips of Qui-Gon’s fingers in his hands, as soothing as if they were pressed to his temples. How foolish has he been? What of this does his Master not already know?

_< And yet, young Padawan, are you so sure you know the will of the Force?>_

“Master. I am . . . “ Obi-Wan grits his teeth, hoping to keep his shame, selfish, hidden—one last secret left, one with many eyes which stare at him, multifaceted, each reflecting something different on any given endless day. But he cannot keep it anymore. Of course he cannot. Not with him.

“I fear that I am lost.”

 _< Lost you might _feel _, but I do not believe that you yourself are lost. Are you not here, watching over the boy? Will you not be there to guide him, to train him—even as you know he must make a terrible choice in the end? >_

_< But I am alone.>_

He knows he cannot retract the thought, but the question at his lips—a vain attempt to mask it—is equal truth.

“What if I fail Luke, as I have failed his father?”

_< Have you? We must each be responsible for our choices, Padawan, and no Master can control another’s path. Could you have stopped him from breaking the Code? Truly? Could you have saved him, even if you had managed to bring his body to your ship, before Palpatine arrived? Could you have turned him to the Light? The choices of the past were always his—you said as much yourself. And yet you take too heavy a burden for yourself . . ._

_< The future’s yet uncertain. Perhaps the prophecy is not forsaken. Perhaps not all hope is lost.>_

Obi-Wan gathers his breath, drawing each inhalation with careful intent, shaken at how the tepid air around him no longer smells of weeping stone and heat and his own sweat but something else—crisp and clear and deep—not quite a scent with a name he can give it. And, of course—although his slickened palms betray the thought—the heady, earthy smell that was always Qui-Gon’s. He hasn’t realized quite how much he missed it, or how quickly it can bring back memories.

_< Do you truly think yourself alone, my Padawan?>_

“Would that you knew.”

_< What can you not tell me?>_

“Master, I did not say—”

_< Then answer me.>_

Not unkind, never unkind—true, Qui-Gon had not always been gentle, and his words had at times been sharp, but ever and always there was kindness.

“I have felt alone since Naboo, Master. And I have spent years blaming myself. I have meditated, often, as Yoda insisted, trying to let go. He always said that we should neither mourn nor miss those who become transformed into the Force, but I . . . could never . . .

“Training Anakin consumed me, all the more when I saw shadows of what he would become . . . I buried everything. For him. But now . . .”

_< Do you really think I left you? You do not say it, Padawan, but it’s there within your thoughts . . .>_

“I cannot shield my thoughts from you again, Master.”

A quiet chuckle, then, from the man sitting before him, and Obi-Wan realizes how foolish he must sound. Or how weak. What has become of him?

But when he looks upon Qui-Gon at last, there is only understanding, subtle and deep in equal turn, carefully measured.

_< You never have. I knew.>_

Qui-Gon shifts his hands, cradling his Padawan’s to still the sudden tremors.

_< Do you fear that you broke the Code? Not as I see it. You were young, and yet you knew that what you wanted then was not something to be. It could never be . . . My Padawan, is that not a paradox within the Code? The bonds formed between Master and apprentice, cast in the light of forming no attachments?>_

Slowly Qui-Gon shakes his head.  _< It took years before I accepted a new Padawan, after what happened with Xanatos . . . as well you know. Obi-Wan, the formation of attachments is inevitable. It is how we choose to act, in spite of them, or because of them, which matters.>_

The words shift through Obi-Wan’s mind as if gravel through a sieve, and what remains . . . He cannot speak, and slips again into the sway of the Force flowing between them, hoping clarity might come with the current in which he so longs to lose himself.

_<. . . You knew, Master?>_

He should be horrified. How carefully had he tried to shield his thoughts throughout the years, ever since the first dream that caught him so off-guard, the hazed recollection of a greater pleasure than he could ever have imagined. And how he had tried to discipline his body with a regimen of meditation and training and cold cleansing-baths and shame.

He should be horrified. And yet . . .

_< It was your shame which first alerted me. Bonds through the Force are . . . intimate, to say the least. And no amount of training, physical or spiritual, can prepare one for adolescence. You are not the first for whom this has happened, and my only regret, Padawan, is that I hadn’t known what to say.>_

_< What would you tell me now?>_

The question is loosed before he realizes it, carried from his thoughts by the current of the Force as much as anything—or so he tells himself—because he knows that Qui-Gon will not accept it as a slip of will. The hands which stilled his trembling assure as much. And now, and now . . . what harm comes of knowing now? When the Order is all but gone? When the man before him is from the nether-Force returned and even with that wisdom is still regarding him with kindness? Is pardoning transgressions? (Were there, are there, none?)

Qui-Gon would not lie . . .

Obi-Wan finds his hands grasped tightly, wincing as decades’ worth of self-denial, of hidden dreams and suppressed longing wrap themselves around that touch. The warmth, the familiarity; of course the gesture is chaste, but it is as if he were a young man again, helpless and flustered and heated by as much as a glance . . . 

His breath becomes hollow, as desolate a key as the winds play through the canyons. Tethered as he is by the Force, caught somewhere between states of consciousness—and for all that his body hardly feels his own—there is something kindled. His throat is dry, his heart hammering an unsteady tattoo, and he shifts, awkwardly, knowing that even if clothing does not betray him, his Master will sense the emotional, physical surge through the Force.

“Forgive me.”

Choked words, empty, tortured: whispered more times than he can count, in oh so many ways, to so many ghosts, to so many nightmares, to so many dreams.

That his Master has knowledge of his past longings is one thing. That he, as a grown man, as a Jedi Master in his own right, can be so quickly undone is quite another.

 _< You asked me what I would tell you now, and that is this.>_ Qui-Gon runs his thumbs along Obi-Wan’s training-scarred knuckles.  _< Your attachment to me has kept you in the Light. At my death you promised me you would train the boy, although you had your doubts. And train him you did, with all the wisdom I passed on to you, and all your skill. You did not forsake him. Not even in the end._

_< Again I ask you, Obi-Wan: are you so sure you know the will of the Force? For now what do you do, my Padawan, but offer your life to keep his son safe? And promise to train him, when the time comes, that his son might take a stand against his father? What greater sacrifice is that? And what is a Jedi’s life but one lived in love and sacrifice for others?_

_< You have honored me, Obi-Wan. And it is your attachment to me that has borne this burden, has it not? Have you not still loved me?>_

Qui-Gon shifts, leans close, until Obi-Wan can see every star cast in his Master’s eyes. With both their knees still touching as they sit in the cross-legged cornerstone of meditative poses, their hands are twined, heads bowed and foreheads gently pressed together . . . Reflexively he inhales, deeply, finding there an echo, the cadence as if of Qui-Gon’s breath—but the Force is the rhythm, then, the binding of lives, the thread, the undulations and the tethers and the song.

_< I have never left, and I will be with you, always . . . >_

And the rhythm catches, dances, strikes a different cadence, primordial. The Jedi teachings had never eschewed the solitary satiating of one’s bodily desires but some things were best entirely forgotten. For Obi-Wan it had been a matter of self-preservation, that staunch adherence to self-denial: far better to throw himself into his training, into missions that bore him to the stars, to countless worlds, to dangers and adventures that he never sought but found himself amidst. Far better all these than to slip down that most treacherous slope of gratification.

* * *

Until now, because too much has happened, too much has come undone, too much has been lost and yet the man whom he had loved for so long, who had died in his arms, and who now has come back from the nether-Force sits before him. His eyes, his hands, his voice, even the smell of him are so terribly, beautifully familiar.

Until now, because Obi-Wan contains within himself the living Force, and this is  _life_ , and Jedi Code or not, he has seen far, far too much lifelessness, and to dwell there in contemplation will undo him.

Until now, too, because his Master offers open arms, murmuring soft nothings, welcoming, embracing, coaxing from him that ageless rhythm, that song, and offering a shoulder and the folds of his cloak into which Obi-Wan can bury his head, half-sobbing as raptured-pleasure wracks him.

* * *

And then there is stillness. The song of savage, salvaged life on Tatooine, but a part of the living Force nonetheless. The suns are sunk low, slanting shadows across the room, darker, longer, than when he had first closed his eyes. Obi-Wan blinks, shifting, finding his back sore against the wall, his tunic plastered to his back. His head is heavy, as if he has held it awkwardly . . .

Slowly he takes stock of himself: stiff muscles, aching joints, the awkward stones from the hovel’s hard floor digging into his flesh. Faint ripples of pleasure still stir his blood, and he trembles, keenly aware of his body and what has happened: that there is a stickiness besides sweat to contend with.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes again, fighting the pounding of dehydration at his temples, the self-conditioned sickened twisting of his gut.  _I have slept, and no more than that . . . a dream . . . Master, please, forgive me._

_< What shall I forgive?>_

It is his Master’s gentle smile, first, which comes to him through the Force, which bids him lift his head and look.

There before him, cross-legged, his mirror, sits Qui-Gon—but not a man of flesh and blood. The ethereal light of the Force shines about him, and when Obi-Wan reaches to take his hand—there is nothing but that light.

And yet, and yet, Qui-Gon shifts, leans close, as if to take his hands, embrace him, so that their foreheads seem pressed gently together. Obi-Wan can feel the Force flowing between them then just as it did in his dream, no weaker is the bond, the touch that his flesh might not this time feel.

_< Do you think I cannot come to you in dreams, my Padawan? That the unconscious mind is not, in its own way, a conduit? I was there, and so were you—and here we are, again, the both of us. Now in this moment when you are awake, and your consciousness is fixed within your body . . . and there are still death and life between us.>_

“. . . Thank you, Master.”

What else is there to say that can be said?

Qui-Gon nods, uncurling his legs and finding his feet in a motion smooth as glass. “It will be evening soon.” His voice is low, laced with echoes of the Force, and Obi-Wan understands that the Force bond between them has become something more sacred still: a place for dreams, for truths, that could not be fathomed in the light of life.

Obi-Wan grunts as he slowly rises, assuring his body that he hears its protests and will take them into account, reaching down to pick up his lightsaber. “Yes. I should . . ." Color rises to his cheeks. "I should . . . ah . . . wash, such as it is . . . and get something to eat before the hunters of the night awaken.”

He pauses, eyes caught between his Master’s specter and the door. “Will you come with me when I watch over Luke tonight?”

Qui-Gon’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly. “I always have.”

* * *

Later, when they walk the dunes together, Qui-Gon states simply, “We have much to talk about, my Padawan. The least of which is this shame and guilt you feel.”

“Yes, Master.”

“But not only what has been—but what might be. The future is yet uncertain.”

“Yes, Master. We will see about tomorrow.”

Obi-Wan turns, caught in the dark-struck side of the final major dune before the Lars’ moisture farm. Dirty clouds skud across the dazzled sky, ablaze with sunsglow as the two flames sink slowly to kiss the horizon. He studies his Master for a moment, swathed in the Force, wishing still that he was here, at last finding himself caught between those deep blue eyes. He nods, slowly, striking out again to crest the dune, hoping to catch an evening glimpse of the five-year-old boy who can play without care, who does not yet know the destiny placed on his shoulders—hoping to catch an evening glimpse of Luke—of Light.

**Author's Note:**

> Spot the _Deep Space Nine_ quote? (Forgive me. I couldn't help myself.)
> 
> I've also been reading through some other fics around here and realized that there is almost nothing original in mine (unbeknownst to me at the time of writing / posting, of course). Well. Damn. XD


End file.
